


It turns out a really good cure for being drunk is when you’re on a plane and then an engine explodes and you think you’re going to die. - Arthur. Cabin Pressure

by orphan_account



Series: 101 Quotes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I cancelled the 101 quotes thing, M/M, There's a gulfstream involved, because I found out how it works, it's now a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 22:27:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2205327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Lestrade take his Gulfstream to the Bahamas for a case. A six hour flight and whisky just don't go together.</p><p>Drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It turns out a really good cure for being drunk is when you’re on a plane and then an engine explodes and you think you’re going to die. - Arthur. Cabin Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this and also happen to work in entertainment (yes, Graham Norton, I AM looking at you!), please, be so kind and do NOT use my work. I repeat, I do NOT give my consent for you to use this!  
> Also, if you are, by some weird coincidence, Moffat/Gatiss/Famous, do not read whatever I write. If you read this...close the page. Now. It's not too late yet. Because my writing is horrible and you will hate me. And yourself for reading.  
> Be kind, and do not share my work with cast or crew.

Mycroft's pissed. Like not, pissed off, no he's pissed as in very, very drunk. And as it turns out, it's not that good of an idea to get drunk while you're (almost) alone on a plane and your only company is another man who is just as drunk. 

And it feels quite nice, honestly. The leather seats of Mycroft's gulfstream are surprisingly comfortable after the seventh glass of whisky. Okay, they are _always_  comfortable, but with a BAC this high, well yes, they feel like big squishy pillows solely made to support his heavy, drunk weight. 

Lestrade's talking about...something. Something along the lines of  _that was a good whisky_  and  _god, that may have been too much_. But Mycroft's just too far away to even care about the nonsense that leaves Lestrade's mouth, his murmuring reduced to a steady, low buzz in the background. 

And it's nice, really. They're both lying there, like two lifeless bodies, minds spinning and thoughts spiraling. And if Mycroft had been sober, he might have said something on the fact that they are way too close. Mere inches keeping his shoulder from touching Greg's. He vaguely registers the warmth radiating off Lestrade's body, and it feels okay. It feels more than okay. In fact, this proximity is making him feel rather...weird. And the British government is not used to feeling weird. 

And Lestrade's apparently keen on making this a whole lot worse, and weirdly enough, Mycroft doesn't mind. Because when Lestrade turns on his side, facing Mycroft, he mirrors the action without as much as a thought. (Like that would even be possible in this state.) 

And fuck, they're really, really close to each other. As in intoxicatingly close. Lestrade's breath gushes against his mouth, the heavy smell of whisky almost tastable. 

"Who the hell do you even work for?" Lestrade asks, giggling. 

"Myself, mostly. Some might say I occupy a minor position in the British government," he answers, tongue glued to his palate, slurring. 

"Yes, because everyone who works for the government has a Gulfstream," Lestrade snorts.

Well, fair point. 

And yes, this is starting to feel a bit too comfortable, and yes, they are getting a bit too close, but fate is cruel. Yes, and fate has its ways, because the moment Lestrade inches closer towards Mycroft, limbs sprawled out over the (way too) large leather seatcouchthingy, there's an announcement over the tannoy breaking the silence abrubtly. 

"Mycroft Holmes, you are needed in the cockpit."

All right, that pilot sounds rather stressed. And freaking out. Mycroft tries to get up, like really, he tries. But it somehow only leads to him stumbling over, well nothing really, perhaps his feet. And it's only after a couple of seconds have passed by Mycroft realises he did not fall over because he's so intoxicated, no the Gulfstream is now leaning towards the left in an almost dangerous angle. If he were sober he would surely be able to calculate the amount of degrees, but right now, not so much. 

He quickly gets up, adrenaline flooding his bloodstream, mixing with the alcohol. It gives him quite the energy shock, really. So before he even fully realises, he has reached the cockpit. He's standing there, okay, no, _leaning_  there against the door. 

"What's wrong?" he asks, sounding only mildly concerned. 

"Our engine on the left. Exploded, I think. We can still land, but we need you two in the back to sit down and fasten your seatbelts." 

Mycroft takes a bit too long to process this fact, but as the severity of the situation finally sinks in, he rushes back to his seat in no-time. 

Lestrade is still lying there, and under heavy protest, is pushed upright by Mycroft. 

"Get your seatbelt on, now," is all he says. 

"What happened?" 

Mycroft smiles at him, a thin smile. And it's really no happy smile, which is not that astonishing when you come to think about it. 

"It turns out a really good cure for being drunk is when you’re on a plane and then an engine explodes and you think you’re going to die."


End file.
